Dying to Know (4 page)

Woof.

Bear was taking his time inside the garage so Hercule and I

returned to the kitchen. Just inside the door, Hercule froze. He

lowered to a spring-loaded crouch—hair up, tail straight, and

teeth bared. He inched across the kitchen toward the hal way and

stopped. He looked back at me waiting for orders.

“Easy, boy. Easy. It could be neighbors with cookies and meat-

loaf. Let’s go see.”

20

We reached the hal way. Faint footsteps descended the stairs

and went into my den. Hercule raised his nose and lowered him-

self again, taking two slow, deliberate steps—it was not Angel.

There were two low voices in my den. We heard desk drawers

open and close, books being pulled off shelves, and my filing

cabinet open. Someone, like Bear, was looking for something.

Hercule crept down the hall beside me and we peered into the

den. Across the room was a tal , thin, African American in a dark

suit. He was rooting through files that Bear had packed in boxes

and set on the floor. The other man, a short, wiry, white man of

about thirty, was rummaging through my desk. This man was

going bald, and what blond hair he had was short. His narrow

face and dull eyes always made me think of a snake waiting for

prey.

I knew them—all too well—and they were both nemeses.

The African-American was Calvin Clemens from my detec-

tive squad down at the County Sheriff ’s office. He wasn’t the

brightest bulb in the box, but not a bad guy overal . His Achilles’

heel was his partner, Mikey Spence. Spence’s mouth and limited

commonsense were often at odds. I was professional with both

men, but not friends, and we worked together when required.

Bear and I always made a point to stay as far from their caseload

as possible—crap tends to stick to you even when it’s not yours.

Spence and Clemens always seemed to be involved in crap.

I watched Clemens continue his foray into my files. Spence

moved to my bookshelf and began pulling books off the shelf

and breezing through them. A strange nagging touched me and I

felt like I knew what they were looking for. It was there, just out 21

of reach of my thoughts. It nagged at me, but I couldn’t get it to focus into a readable script in my head. Confusion, it seems, is a by-product of death; it was like goo stuck to my shoe. Memories

swirled around me and some were taking their time landing. It

was starting to piss me off.

I knew what they were looking for—yet I didn’t know what it

was.

Spence stopped fanning through books and noticed a picture

sitting on my bookshelf. It was of Angel and me at her doctoral

commencement. She was wearing an al uring, knee-length black

dress that showed off her legs and other lovely parts.

Truly, though, her mind attracted me. I swear.

“Spence, I may be dead, but that’s still my wife.” I put my hand

on his shoulder and squeezed. “Paws off.”

“What?” His eyes peered around and settled on Clemens.

“What’d you say?”

“Nothing, why?”

The two exchanged dumb glances. Spence said, “I thought I

heard something.”

Grrrr
—Hercule pounced in and posted in the center of the

room. He let out a low growl that sent both men against the wal .

“Easy, boy,” Clemens said. “Easy, Hercule. It’s your pal, Cal.

Calm down.”

Hercule was crouched in launch-mode and growled again.

“What in the hell are you doing here?” Bear’s voice boomed

from the doorway. “Crime scene’s done.”

“Oh, hey Bear,” Clemens said. “We thought we’d give it an-

other go. You know, looking for anything missed.”

22

“Bul shit.” Bear was edgy. “Crime guys worked this place al

night and most of the day.”

“Sure, yeah,” Spence said, pointing at Hercule. “No offense.

How about having him back off. I don’t think he remembers me.”

“He remembers you.” Bear leaned down and patted Hercule.

“It’s all right, boy. If they act up, I’ll shoot them.”

Herc walked over to me and lay down. He kept his eyes fixed

on Spence.

Clemens asked, “Where’s Angel?”

“That’s Angela to you. Or better yet, ‘Doctor Tucker.’”

“She home?”

Bear ignored him. “What are you looking for?”

“Nothing.” Spence patted the air. “Just checking around.”

“We’re done here. Captain Sutter says so. Angela’s over at Pro-

fessor Stuart’s place for the night. You two leave her alone. She

needs rest.”

“Sure, sure.” Clemens went to the file cabinet and shut the

open drawer. “How are you doing, Bear? You okay?”

“Cut the crap, Clemens. This is my case.”

“It was,” Spence said. “The Captain pulled you this afternoon.

You can’t run the case since you were Tuck’s partner and An-

gel’s …
friend
.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

I knew exactly what that meant. So did Bear.

“Gee, I wonder,” Spence said, winking. “You’re here, aren’t

you? Keeping the pretty widow company?”

“You little shit.” Bear took a dangerous step toward him. “She’s

not here. You better watch yourself, Spence.”

23

“Yeah, well you better, too.” Spence waved the photograph of

Angel that he was admiring. “We’re on this case, pal. We need to

question Angela again. But, sure, we’ll wait until tomorrow.”

“Angel had nothing to do with this.”

“Yeah?” Spence tapped a finger on the photo. “Ninety-five

percent of all homicides are committed by the spouse.”

I said, “No, you moron, that’s not right.”

Bear rolled his eyes.

“Ah, Mikey,” Clemens said, “you sure of that?”

Bear grabbed the photo from Spence. “You two hit the road.

I’ll straighten this out with the Captain.”

“You do that, Bear. Cal and I are through—for now. I can’t

wait to chat it up with Angela. Funny, you don’t look all that

upset, Bear. If my partner here was killed, I’d …”

Detective Mike Spence may have been a little dense some-

times, but he didn’t lack survival instincts. Before Bear could

reach him, he and Clemens made a tactical withdrawal through

the front door and down the walk. From the safety of the outer

gate, Spence turned and threw a wave back to Bear, now standing

on the front porch.

“Hey, Bear, we gotta take care of Tuck’s case. We’ll let you get

back to taking care of his Mrs.”

24

five

While Bear washed down his bad attitude with my fifty-year-

old Kentucky bourbon, I went wandering around the house. He’d

left the doors open and I moved from room-to-room uninhib-

ited. This was handy since my current state of existence seemed

to limit my physical abilities like opening doors.

Hercule strolled with me. He dropped his ball on the hard-

wood floor and watched it bounce here and there whenever I

stopped to reflect on some photograph or knickknack. We were

on the second floor balcony overlooking the foyer when Hercule

got bored and headed down the stairs. He stopped three stairs

down, withdrew two. He let out a low, mournful growl that was

half warning, half fear.

He had good reason.

Below us, the foyer had disappeared. In its place was a murky

darkness that congealed as we watched. A breeze reached us that

carried the sound of the wind rustling through autumn trees. I

25

smelled freshly turned dirt and heard the sound of shovels dig-

ging earth. Then I heard the rumble of two men’s voices but

could not understand them.

“Holy crap, Herc. Stay here. I gotta see what this is all about.”

Hercule liked my plan.

I crept down the stairs but did not land on oak hardwood.

Instead, I was standing in tall field grass above an earthen pit

surrounded by crumbled stones and mounds of freshly piled

dirt. The breeze brought a crisp taste to the air that reminded me of autumn’s changing leaves.

The two men dug in weary, slow-motion effort. A lantern that

sat on the side of the pit above their heads cast a dim light that battled with their shadows. I couldn’t make out their faces but

their features were dark and hard, and their work clothes grubby

and sweaty. The mound of earth told me they had been working

for a long time. Grumbles said they were unhappy with the labor.

One of them threw himself against the edge of the pit and

dropped his shovel. “¿
Qué? Madre de Dios, mira.”

The other man looked on but didn’t move nor speak.

The first lowered his head and ran a solemn finger from fore-

head to chest and shoulder-to-shoulder, muttering a prayer that I

didn’t need translated. Then he bent down and retrieved some-

thing from the dirt, holding it in the light for inspection. When

the light touched his left arm, something just below his rolled

sleeves caught my attention. It was a dark tattoo in the shape of a cross with a halo atop it.

“El hombre será feliz.
Apúrate!
” The tattooed man whispered.

“
Date prisa. Cavar más rápido.
”

26

With a fever, the two attacked the pit again. After several mo-

ments, the tattooed man used the lantern to survey their work.

“¿
Qué?
”

The other bent down and retrieved a fistful of earth. He

cleaned something in his fingertips and held it to the light. A

round piece of metal, perhaps a coin, caught the light and both

men smiled. The find renewed their enthusiasm.

The tattooed one said,
“Dig. Dig. Hay más.”

I found my footing in the loose dirt and stone and moved

closer to the pit. “What do you have? Who are you?”

The tattooed man jolted upright and spun around, holding

the lantern in front of him shining it toward the top of the pit.

When the light touched me, it snapped dark and Hercule

barked behind me. I turned to find him creeping down the stairs.

When I looked back at the pit, it was gone. My front door was in

its rightful place. The oak landing was beneath my feet. There

was no pit—no men digging in the night. Their discovery was

gone, too.

Perhaps my sanity followed it.

Hercule stood halfway down the stairs, uneasy and unsteady.

He looked around and raised his nose to smell the air. He

moaned in a low, worrisome tone and looked up at me.

“Hell no, boy—no clue.”

27

six

Back in my den, the images confused me, and yet I was not

afraid or unnerved. Had my home turned into a nighttime trea-

sure hunt when I was among the living, I would have checked

into a hospital or a nearby bar. Now, however, the vignette was

no stranger to me than having no reflection in the hall mirror.

Dying was far more complicated than I imagined.

Angel was one of the many complications. She was at the top

of my list. I had to find her. I had to know she was all right. My eyes fell back onto her garter belt and an empty feeling of remorse consumed me. The ache built and her memory drove nails

into my heart. In a slow, churning boil, desperate feelings rose

inside. I had to find her. I had to go to her.

But where?

Ernie Stuart, of course—Bear said as much. Ernie was her

university superior, her dearest friend, and lifelong mentor—a

28

role he’d assumed when she was still a child. He was never far

away. He’d be close now.

The garter belt had triggered a cascade of emotions. Perhaps

it would again. I touched it again, closing my eyes, trying to find her—to see her, reach her, touch her. I felt dizzy like a child twirl-ing with outstretched arms, spinning in a playground game. I

twirled, too, until the smoky scent of a fire reached me. I opened my eyes and let the lightheadedness subside. Familiar surroundings greeted me. I was standing in a large room with a grand fire-

place and high, crown-molded ceilings. An expensive Persian

rug covered part of the hardwood. Shelves of books lined the

room, and Civil War antiques were displayed everywhere.

Professor Ernie Stuart’s living room.

Ernie lived on a twenty-acre, nineteenth-century farm on the

northwest corner of the county. His farmhouse was miles from

the nearest neighbor and he preferred it that way. He was reclu-

sive and always had been. Acres of rolling fields shielded him

from whatever he loathed—and his demeanor suggested that was

most things. Angel was not among them.

She was curled up on the couch. An empty brandy snifter

rested on a nearby end table as she dozed on a billowy pillow. Her face was a mixture of anguish and alcohol. There was a large, purr-ing gray tomcat on her lap and her hand rested on his back, sub-

consciously petting.

Boy, Hercule wasn’t going to like that. He hated cats; Ernie’s

the most. Truth be told, Hercule hated Ernie more, but the cat

suffered his wrath.

29

“Dear? Angela?” Ernie was standing near the fireplace sip-

ping a drink. He was a distinguished, striking man in his six-

ties—tall and strong. He had wide shoulders and an athletic

build. His face sported a “professor’s goatee” and immaculate silver hair. He presented a thoughtful, analytical demeanor born

from two doctorates and a university professorship.

“Huh?” Angel stirred and sat upright, rubbed her eyes, and